He took his drink, tossed it back, and waited for me to do the same.
“Just give it a minute,” I said, peering at the gash on my arm.
“Why are you being difficult, Geneviève? Do I stitch you poorly? Have I caused undue pain?” His hand was alongside my cheek, hovering in that sliver of space where if I sighed, he’d be touching me. “You are seeping blood.”
“’s not you. I want to know how fas’ I’ll heal now. This is an oppur. . . oppurtuney.”
He gave me an incredulous stare. “Not even you are this brash, love.”
Silently, I removed the now scarlet-red cloth from my arm. The bleeding was slowing some. Congealing. That was new. As I watched the edges of the ten-inch cut on my upper arm were straining, as if they could touch.
It was, in truth, a bit horrible to see my skin seeming to reach out. It was, well, not what human flesh did, not what witches’ skin did. This was a result of my paternal heritage. Creepy arm thing? Gift from doubly-dead dad.
He was dead when he fathered me, but his status was revised to permanently dead at my hand. But as any Southern-born person knows, the sins of the father don’t end at death—even two deaths. I was a freak of nature, neither dead nor alive. And after an awkward attempted murder that didn’t take, I was changing.
“Geneviève?”
I looked up.
“You have lost too much blood. You are drifting.” Eli gestured at me, and I could see the spectral shape seeping out of my body, as if my shadow had taken on life.
“Well, that’s no good.” I realized I had slid down the wall right about when Eli caught me. Propped in his arms, I took a good long drink of the bottle of white liquor he held out.
Tequila.
Life was always better with tequila. Eli and I were better with tequila. Hell, everything was probably better with tequila. War? Famine? Plague?
“Fucking tequila heals everything.”
“Of course, it does, plum pudding. One more,” Eli urged, tilting the bottle for me as my hands were feeling less than grippy.
“Is grippy a word?”
Eli shook his head, but I wasn’t sure if that was disapproval or disagreement with my choice of “grippy” as a word.
“I’m stitching that cut, Geneviève.”
“Pro’lly good plan after all, muffin.”
He laughed. “Muffin?”
“’s what you call me. Stupid pas’ry words.” I closed my eyes.
“You like it,” he whispered, kissing my forehead as he settled my head gently on the bar floor. “And you like me.”
I did, of course, but I wasn’t dazed enough to admit that.
Chapter Eight
When we were alone, I allowed myself to nestle into Eli’s arms. It was the sort of thing that I ought to avoid, a vulnerability that I seemed only able to share with him. Sometimes, I felt like it was what I needed most in the world, though, a safe place to rest. I was stitched and had consumed two bottles of liquor. I wasn’t feeling my best, but I was coherent again.
Eli held me so that my cheek was on his chest, and he stroked my hair. It was soothing to be held, to be safe, and to feel cherished.
“Dating you is more stressful than I expected,” Eli murmured.
I looked up at him. “This is me. What I do. Who I am.”
He sighed. “Geneviève, I know these things, but I had hoped that dating during your seasonal lull would include more romance and fewer stitches. Is it so much to ask for some time where we can dance and avoid bleeding?”
A flash of guilt rolled over me. “I wore a pretty dress for you. Seductive, and wore gifts you bought to show my regard.” I turned my head and kissed his chest. “We danced.”
Eli looked at me so intently that I squirmed in embarrassment. “You read about fae customs. You wore my gifts because you researched my people.”
“There are a lot of rules. I got one right, but I get a lot wrong.”
“You researched,” he repeated in a voice filled with wonder.
“Fine. Maybe I read everything I could find on fae rules over the last few years,” I hedged. “I felt like I offended you often, and I just . . . you matter to me, Eli.”
He held me in silence for several moments. “Enough to take no more jobs for the next three weeks?”
I thought about it. In terms of the things he asked of me over the last year, it was perhaps the easiest request so far. I nodded. “You have my word: no more jobs between Yule and Twelfth Night. We’ll call it a witch bargain.”
He chuckled. “Terms for this ‘Witch Bargain’?”
“No talk of weddings.”
“Done.”
“Nothing that happens as a result of festivities is precedent-setting,” I tried to sound calm, but Eli’s slow smile said that he knew exactly what I was saying. Festivities often involved desserts, some of which left me as drunk as a human with a fifth of whisky.
“Of course, my crème brûlée.” His voice sent welcome shivers over me. “I cannot change the law of intercourse for my people, but . . . I can touch you as often as you allow.”
If I wasn’t fighting to keep my eyes open, I’d be ready for that. The combination of blood loss and daylight wasn’t doing great things for me. I was drifting in and out of sleep until evening came. Eli was asleep finally, so when I woke, I started to slip out of bed.
Eli, half-asleep, caught my hand. “If you need space, stay here in the guest room. I’ll go to my room.”
I paused. “I’m feeling better now. I could go h--”
“I want you here, Geneviève.” Eli met my gaze. “Will you stay with me?”
The way he said it didn’t feel like he meant just for the night, but that was all I could offer in the moment. No sharing a lover’s bed. No letting them stay in mine. It was frightening to stay, but I trusted Eli with my life regularly. Surely, I could trust him with my heart for a few weeks, too.
I crawled closer to him and nestled against his side.
“So, dating you involves sleep-overs?” I asked, voice as light as I could manage.
“I’d like it to,” Eli said. “I know it’s not your preference, but let me have today.”
“And tomorrow?” I asked.
Eli knew me well, which he proved by adding, “This is a guest bed, Geneviève. It’s not my bed. You are simply staying in my guest room. Say the word, and I’ll go to my bed. Alone.”
Maybe that wasn’t romantic for most people, but it made me want to swoon. Instead I kissed him. “I’ll stay.”
“I’ll get you breakfast,” he said.
Within moments, Eli held out a steaming coffee cup of vodka with a dash of grenadine and a couple cherries. Liquor was magical with my biology. Bring on the booze. It was a key part of what kept my biologically-irrational body running.
“You’re smarter than anyone that attractive ought to be,” I grumbled as I reached for the mug.
Eli laughed and helped me sit up. “A little fruit for the pain?”
“Yes.” I reached out further, but we could both see my arm shake. Fruit, unlike liquor, made me tipsy, but after my failed experiment, I could stand a little tipsy in my—. . . I glanced at the wall clock.